


i wanna feel the heat with somebody

by moonrocks



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Sex, Childhood Friends, Emotional Constipation, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24509350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks
Summary: The proximity feels familiar but heightened. Stewy wants to tell Kendall over and over "I am here, I am here, I am here," but he never lets the words form in his mouth. They are foreign, uncouth.Canon divergence from "Nobody Is Ever Missing." What might have happened that night if Stewy stopped Kendall, causing the accident to never take place.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Kendall Roy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 99





	i wanna feel the heat with somebody

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for drug use and cringe and fail sex because Stewy and Kendall are cringe and fail.
> 
> Huge shout-out to Chelsea AKA [kendallsparkcoke](https://kendallsparkcoke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [KidRoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KidRoy) on AO3. She should honestly get a co-writing credit with how much she helped me with this. Big thanks to her or else I might have perished from the task. Read her fic too!
> 
> Anyways, enjoy.

Stewy is still in the room when Kendall comes back looking for a straightener.

The baggie of cocaine burns a hole through his breast pocket as he watches Kendall rifle around. He sucks at his teeth as if resisting the urge to sniff, his fingers jittery. Kendall is hard to look at like this, all bleary tear ducts and creased jowls. His shoulders are hunched, like the gravitational pull of the earth is about to crumple him up and toss him away like a used cum sock on a dorm room floor. 

Memories.

Stewy ignores them.

It was always Kendall who had the drug problem, ever since they started experimenting in high school once sneaking into bars got boring and alcohol made them restless. Stewy coasts by on self-discipline. He knows when to kick it from his system, which pills to take to level himself out. He should be looking out for Kendall, steering him clear of this shit like a good friend would, not inviting him into public restrooms for a bump and a handy. 

Kendall asks for another hit. Stewy lies. When Kendall presses him, Stewy lies again. Kendall gives up easily, but probably not because he believes him: a formality.

Maybe Stewy should feel guilty for denying him this, especially now, but he thought they were past the desperation, fumbling for a fix like street addicts and underage coke whores. But Kendall is always looking for that supplementary high, whichever way he can get it. Stewy provided it when they were teenagers or back at Harvard when he was less in control.

Memories again.

Stewy looks up from his phone, faking apathy when Kendall sets down his barely touched beer on the coffee table. He still looks like an abandoned kennel dog, droopy and wet. Stewy softly digs his teeth into his cheek. Maybe he does feel guilty.

Kendall shrugs his coat further onto his shoulders, then heads towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Stewy asks. 

“Where do you think?” Kendall says flatly.

Rolling his eyes, Stewy reaches out and catches Kendall’s wrist before Kendall can pass him on the couch. Kendall stops in his tracks. His right hand is cold beneath Stewy’s fingers, stiffened by the trek from the reception hall back to his room. His pulse is steady in his wrist, strong enough that Stewy can count the beats. It hammers away from his last hit, but it threatens to slow. 

Kendall looks down at where Stewy is holding him in place. His fingers crease the sleeve of the white button-down that peeks out of Kendall’s coat. 

“Dude, what?” Kendall asks. His voice is barely a hitch in his throat. 

Stewy sighs shortly through his nose. He removes his hand when he realizes it was enough to get Kendall to stay put. Sometimes touching Kendall is an instinct, a gut reaction before his brain can catch up. Something leftover from childhood, like chickenpox scars. Stewy blames it on the glass of alcohol warming against his palm and the fucking day they both have had. Malfunctioning printers and spilled champagne and bear hug letters in the toilet, an amalgamation of major fucking buzzkills. 

Honestly, he could probably use a hit too.

Stewy shifts on the couch. He sets his phone face down, crossing one ankle over the other.

“Come on, Ken,” he says, projecting ease despite the unplaceable urgency drilling a hole in the back of his head. “You need to relax, man. We should be celebrating.” He tries not to sound like he has ulterior motives, namely keeping Kendall where he can see him. “Stay, take your coat off, finish your drink. Brother, we fucking won.”

Kendall scoffs. Stewy expects the tiniest smirk to tug at the corner of Kendall’s mouth—which is all he seems to be able to muster these days—but he gets nothing. “Seems a little premature, Stew.”

Nonetheless, Kendall backs away from the door. He slips off his coat and sinks down onto the couch. He drapes it over the arm, grabs his beer, then takes a thoughtful swig, doing what Stewy told him to do with mechanical precision. 

It annoys Stewy more than it pleases him. He purses his lips.

“Maybe so, but we already blew our load, dude,” Stewy says. “Either Logan comes to the table or he tries, and fails, to clean up our mess. Either way, we fucked him. The deed is done.”

Kendall shrugs and leans forward with his elbows on his thighs. He has the bottle in a vise between his hands, electing to look into it rather than meet Stewy’s eyes. Kendall has been looking at him less and less ever since the vote of no confidence. There used to be moments where Stewy could feel Kendall’s eyes on him while he looked elsewhere. Now, Kendall’s gaze is fleeting, only there when necessary. 

“You okay?” Stewy asks, probably for the third time in the span of twelve hours or even ten minutes. He knows the answer already, every variation memorized, scribbled on his palms beneath his skin. 

“Yeah, man,” Kendall lies. “Fucking A1.” 

Stewy finishes off his drink, unconvinced, then reaches for the decanter on the side table. It’s half-full with whiskey. “Want something stronger?” He tips it towards Kendall for emphasis and the crystal stopper rattles.

Kendall shakes his head. “No, uh, no thanks.”

All Stewy wants to offer Kendall are depressants. He needs something to bring him down, even him out, keep him placid and pliable. But Stewy knows Kendall is looking for a different high, something more stimulating. Coke has always been his drug of choice, but Stewy knows his second pick, always has but rarely admits it. Only in these moments, when Kendall is tearing up his insides and barely holding his guts in, does Stewy recognize its advantage.

Stewy pours a finger of whiskey into a glass. He downs it in one gulp, then pours another and downs half of it, Sandy and his scheduled check-ins be damned. He has attended more important meetings with worse hangovers, much worse. As long as Kendall is in the right state of mind to lead the calls to investors, Stewy can weather it.

Stewy sits beside Kendall on the couch. The proximity feels familiar but heightened. Stewy is painfully aware of how Kendall resettles against the cushion as it sinks inwards from the added weight. Stewy wants to say over and over _I am here_ , _I am here_ , _I am here_ , but he never lets the words form in his mouth. They are foreign, uncouth.

Kendall speaks first. His voice swallows up the whole room. “Do you think I can do this?”

Stewy frowns. He runs a hand over his face to hide it. “Yeah, Ken. Fuck yeah. You know I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise. I mean, it’s the middle of fucking March and we’re in a fucking bog, dude. It’d be a waste of time and an expensive pair of shoes if I didn’t think this was gonna work.” 

Kendall snorts, but he immediately reverts to uncomfortable sincerity. “Yeah, sure. But like, do you—do you think I’m made for it?”

Stewy feels his throat tighten. “What? CEO?”

Kendall nods. He sets his beer down, unable to sit still. He drags a hand down his face. “I mean, this bullshit with the Canadians, the leak, the vote of no confidence . . . Ruining my sister’s wedding.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, Kendall.” Stewy turns towards him on the couch. He tries to get a better look at him but his chin is pointed down at his chest. His eyes are on the floor. “Don’t even think about that shit, man. We don’t have to do this right now.”

Stewy says it more for his own sake than Kendall’s. He can handle Kendall when he’s fucked up and irremediable, a couple of three-inch lines away from ODing or another rehab stay. He can handle Kendall when he’s living off the buzz of a successful acquisition or a digit and nine zeros deal. He can handle Kendall’s naivety, his pettiness, his delusion, even his resentment. What Stewy can’t handle is Kendall’s guilt, not when he has his own to contend with. It all falls in line beside Kendall and it all leads back to him. Never forwards, never sideways, but backwards.

“But, like, what else is there to do?” Kendall asks. His fingers inch inwards to make fists against his thighs. He flexes them, a nervous fidget. His taut tendons are the sign of an addict craving and resisting. “Shiv, Rome, Connor, my, uh, my fucking dad. You know they don’t see it how I do. If—if things keep going the way they are with the firm, everything my father built is going to get fucking demolished, in two, like, maybe three years tops. If he keeps trying to mould the company into something obsolete and untenable, it’ll eventually break apart in his hands.”

“Hm, so they know now, huh? Your dad told them?” 

“Uh, yeah, dude,” Kendall snaps. “Obviously they fucking know.”

Stewy sighs, a half-assed attempt at conveying commiseration. He pats Kendall on the shoulder. It’s a brief touch: not enough but all he’s willing to offer right now. “I know, man. It’s tough. I know.”

The inner politics of the Roy family was never something he wanted to confront head-on. It was like looking into a sinkhole of abuse and emotional baggage he wouldn’t trudge through unless it bought him the world. As a kid, he could tag along on family vacations, spend summers with Kendall on one of several dozen Roy properties, but he still kept his distance. He was a skeptical observer, never quite pulled in or under the all-encompassing weight of the Roy mythos. 

It took Kendall a decade to convince him to stop disassembling companies for scraps and buy into something long term, something Royco. But even then, Stewy gave in under false pretenses, bringing Sandy in to secretly sit at the table while he put on a friendly face in the seat across from Logan.

It was the only way Stewy would have ever agreed to it. He had been hearing Kendall talk about his father and the firm since grade school. He had watched Kendall cry and angst and wallow in self-pity, over and over again. Stewy knows what those three letters that come after his name have done to him. Three fucking letters. Stewy has offered to pull Kendall from their grasp more times than he can count. Kendall always said no. He rejected Stewy’s stratagem, his business ideas, and him in the process. Stewy eventually realized the only way Kendall was going to get out was by getting farther in and taking Waystar for himself.

But as Stewy watches Kendall crack, threatening to fall apart into jagged pieces beside him, he dreads that it won’t be enough.

Kendall just shakes his head. “Jesus, this is fucking ridiculous. I mean, did they—did they really expect me to watch from the sidelines while everything fell apart, like a Royco fucking water boy? I had to take the company out of family control—I had to—and now I have to, uh, put the pieces back together myself, and, like, throw the useless parts away. I had no choice.”

In an attempt to cushion his guilt, Stewy can see that Kendall is beginning to spiral. And from where Stewy is sitting, it can only be an unseemly and dizzying fall. Stewy recalls an earlier conversation he had with Sandy while Kendall was at the reception. If Kendall isn’t stable, the stock isn’t stable, and the deal isn’t stable. One wrong move in front of investors and the floor could fall out from underneath them, causing them to snag on every poison pill Logan swallowed on their way down. 

Kendall can’t look shaky. They can’t afford it. Stewy can’t afford it. 

“Alright, Ken, I get where you’re coming from,” Stewy says, trying to level with Kendall but becoming increasingly fed up with his blabbering. “I get what you’re saying. Like, totally and completely, dude, I do. ”

“Stewy—”

“—but please, man, can we just—can you calm down a bit? Can we stop with the theatrics? Like, come on.” 

Kendall narrows his eyes at Stewy. “Calm down? Just, fucking, uh—just calm down? Yeah, sure, no sure. I’ll just calm right the fuck down. It’s not like we’re in the process of pulling off one of the biggest hostile takeovers anyone’s seen in the last twenty years.”

Stewy resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Look, we knew what we were getting into. You wanted this. We prepared for it.” 

“Oh, “we?” We prepared for it? Did we, Stew?” Kendall says, suddenly smug. Stewy feels the room shift with his pivoting anger. A different kind of weight lays itself over the amenities and the clutter. “I—I know you think you get it. That you think you get all of this shit—me, my family, our firm—but you really have no fucking clue.”

Stewy scoffs. He raises his eyebrows, twiddles with the glass of whiskey perched in his hand. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Kendall finally turns towards Stewy on the couch. Stewy is almost relieved by it. Kendall looks less pathetic like this, all puffed up and confrontational. Stewy is used to this. He’s handled hot shot start-up pricks and silver spoon trust-funders who come looking for his investment and throw tantrums in his office. If he can handle that, he can handle Kendall. 

“You said it yourself, Stew. You’re a parasite. You’re a fucking leech. You follow the money wherever it takes you and this just happens to be where the, uh, pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is,” Kendall spits. “That’s why you’re here. You’re not sacrificing anything for this deal. This is my family I’m putting on the fucking line. You don’t care as long as it feeds into your pocket.” 

Stewy feels the sting, sudden and potent. It surprises and maims him in equal measure. He swallows it, pushes it down. 

“Really? That’s what you think of me?” Stewy means for it to sound sarcastic, but it comes out so much softer, rounded at the edges instead of barbed. 

“I mean, come on, Stewy,” Kendall says. “This is just another opportunity for you to profit from what my family has built, even if you act like you’re so fucking above it all. Like, dude, you’re here to ride my coat-tails. You’ve been doing it since we were in middle school.” 

Sting, again, expected this time but more painful. Stewy looks down into his glass and conveniently decides he needs a top-up. He stands, grabs the decanter, and pours another finger of whiskey. The silence is thick and unbearable, but he lets Kendall sit with it as he takes a swig. Even with his back turned, he can tell Kendall is squirming on the couch, quickly losing his nerve. Stewy tries to find some of his own, tries and fails, then tries again. 

“Jesus, Kendall. You’re a fucking idiot. I just—God, fuck, okay, fine. You wanna know why I came here?” Stewy turns to face him. Kendall meets his eyes, but his head is hung like it hurts to look. His anger has wholly dissipated. “You, Kendall. I came here because of you. And not just because I see you as an asset, but because I care about you, you prick.” 

Stewy grits his teeth. His own honesty disquiets him. It makes him itch out of his skin. He keeps talking to distract from it, but the back of his neck is burning. 

“Look, I know this is difficult for you and I know you want to take it out on someone, but can you please shut the fuck up and stop running your mouth?” Stewy pleads, willing his voice not to break. “I’m on your team, man. I’m your fucking friend. I’m here for _you_.”

Stewy lets go of the breath he was holding in. It comes out embarrassingly shaky. It’s a product of his uncertainty, his panic, his exhaustion, his attempts to reach Kendall without stretching out his arms. Kendall stares at him from across the room, pointedly falling apart, collapsing. Stewy blinks, or maybe he looks away, but when he looks back, Kendall is crying.

After all this time, Kendall is still that boy Stewy met in grade school, who still cries at everything, who still twists Stewy up in ways he can’t even begin to unravel. Kendall is the exception and he is the rule and Stewy goes to him before he can think about it.

His steps are heavy against the floor as he falls into place near Kendall. He clears a space on the coffee table to sit, close enough that their knees brush, lowering himself to Kendall’s level. Kendall continues to cry, half-holding it in. His head is hung to hide his face, his shoulders folded inwards, slouching. He looks unbearably small, like he might implode and disappear.

“Ken,” Stewy says then sighs. For once, he’s at a loss for words. 

He looks down at Kendall’s hands, balled up into fists at his sides. Stewy should know what to do. He has dealt with this a thousand times before, but it feels different, somehow more fragile. Everything they talked about as kids—becoming business partners, taking Waystar for themselves, Kendall getting out from under Logan—is right in front of them, waiting to be taken. Stewy feels the need to do it carefully or else the opportunity will disintegrate between his fingers. 

Maybe Kendall will disintegrate between his fingers too.

Stewy reaches over and takes Kendall’s hand. He holds it noncommittally and Kendall uncurls his fist, fingers flattening against his knee. Kendall stares down at where their hands are folded together while Stewy hesitantly brushes a thumb across his knuckles. He never takes his eyes off Kendall or the tears blotting his cheeks: a clear-cut reminder of what Kendall is risking in all this, what he is losing.

In response to the touch, Kendall immediately leans forward, letting out a choked sob as he tucks his chin into the crook of Stewy’s neck. Stewy feels Kendall’s palm press against his back. It draws him in, asking him to stay.

“Hey, I got you,” Stewy says without faltering. He places his unoccupied hand on the back of Kendall’s head, fingers in his hair. “I got you.”

Kendall has been volatile all day, constantly a moment away from breaking. Stewy is relieved to have him come apart in a controlled space, a place where he can make sure Kendall is taken care of. Thirty seconds pass, or maybe a minute, or two. Stewy feels the collar of his jacket soak through as Kendall collects himself. Stewy can hear his breathing even out. His sniffles become more pronounced, more frequent, and then Kendall pulls away to look at him. Their hands remain interlocked. 

“You good?” Stewy asks.

Kendall nods. “Are you?”

“Yeah, man.”

Stewy offers him a small smile. He glances over at his wet collar, then back at Kendall. Kendall looks even more puffy-faced than usual. His eyes are ringed with pink, damp cheeks reflecting the lamplight.

“Dude, gross. It looks like someone doused your face with a snot gun,” Stewy teases. “You got slimed, bro.”

Kendall cracks a smile at that. “Asshole.”

Stewy laughs and runs a knuckle over Kendall’s cheekbone. He wipes the tears away, playfully then gently. The sleeve of his button-down catches on Kendall’s cheek and dampens, but Stewy is past the point of caring. Kendall has cried on his shoulder enough times for him to know tears don’t stain.

He must linger too long because Kendall’s expression shifts from friendly annoyance to something intense and unsure. Stewy knows that look. He stops wiping at Kendall’s face and lets his fingertips lightly rest against his cheek.

“Stew.” Kendall breathes it more than he says it. It stirs something in Stewy’s chest.

A pause, weighted, then Stewy closes the space.

It’s awkwardly fitting that tears are the first thing Stewy tastes when they kiss, then the warmth of Kendall’s breath in his mouth. Embarrassingly, it takes Stewy no time at all to settle on top of Kendall. They fall back against the couch and Stewy feels like a teenager again, fumbling, desperate, not totally sure what to do with his hands.

Despite the suddenness and uncertainty, Kendall’s mouth is eager and pliable beneath Stewy’s lips. It’s been a while since they did this, but Stewy doesn’t need to relearn him. Every part of Kendall has been imprinted on his memory. He knows how to tease an ease out of Kendall that no one else can. He learned how to do it early on in their friendship. Between pre-pubescent angst and Roy-branded crises, he never had the chance to forget.

Stewy’s fingers wander into Kendall’s hair as they move together. He softly digs his nails into the back of Kendall’s head, urging him on. Kendall clings to Stewy’s waist beneath his suit jacket. He untucks his button-down from his pants as he presses firmly into him, wrinkling it against his fingertips, then fumbles with one of Stewy’s buttons. When he yanks it a bit too clumsily, Stewy pulls away just enough to get a word in.

“Bro, you’re gonna be paying for my dry cleaning the way you’re going at it right now,” he says. “I fucking promise you that.”

“Oh, you promise?” Kendall raises his eyebrows. “Uh, fuck you, dude. I bet you—I bet you, fucking, uh, throw your shit out after wearing it once.”

“You sound jealous.” Stewy pouts. “Does mommy still lay out your clothes for you in the morning?”

Kendall, probably stuck for a comeback, replies by kissing Stewy, considerably less gentle and coordinated this time. Their noses bump, teeth and tongue. When that kiss breaks, Kendall is the one who instigates another, then another. Normally, Stewy doesn’t indulge him so much, but it’s probably the least he can do for the person who’s about to make him several billion by razing his father’s company to the ground. 

Bottom line, this—whatever “this” is—is a tactical move to keep Kendall going without plying him with more drugs. Stewy is fine with being a distraction, a means to an end. He used Kendall for the same reasons in college. Past experience tells him he can give Kendall an equally sufficient high. Although, he knows fucking him would be so much better with a hit in both their systems. He would do it, if not for pleasure than for the sake of old times. But as far as Stewy is concerned, nostalgia and hedonism go hand in hand.

Kendall’s breath hitches as Stewy undoes his belt. The buckle clanks against his fiddling fingers, desperation making his movement less measured. Stewy thinks about the coke nestled in his jacket pocket, the same coke he insisted he was all out of. But before he can do anything so careless, he pushes Kendall’s pants off his hips, along with his underwear, then takes Kendall into his fist.

Just as expected, Kendall relaxes into the touch, his grip around Stewy’s waist going slack. He presses his forehead against Stewy’s collarbone and lets out an unsteady breath. Stewy can feel the heat of it seep through his clothes. It reminds him of the tears soaking through his jacket.

“I got you,” Stewy reiterates. 

Kendall nods, ever so slightly. Stewy strokes him experimentally at first, then slowly builds up a rhythm, not bothering to tease Kendall or draw it out. The touch is achingly sincere, unencumbered by pretence or ridicule. Stewy feels heat line his stomach when Kendall moans lowly in response. His own arousal is an unintended by-product of seeing Kendall come apart. He means to ignore it, diverting his thoughts to investment meetings and video conferences, but Kendall catches him anyways.

“Hey,” Kendall says, lifting his head.

Kendall moves his hand from Stewy’s waist to his inner thigh, then cups his cheek. The gesture is too innocent, even comical considering Stewy is right in the middle of getting him off. It gives Stewy pause, causing him to stop his ministrations and drawing his attention upwards. Kendall looks at him, all overblown pupils and fluttering eyelashes, like some doe-eyed Bambi motherfucker. It’s completely and utterly unbearable.

“What?” Stewy asks, feigning annoyance to cover himself. “I’m, like, sort of busy here. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but your dick is literally in my hand.” 

With Kendall looking at him like this, Stewy feels uncomfortably seen, like Kendall has tenderly opened up his chest cavity and is taking a look at his organs inside. He moves them around, laying them out on a surgical table to prod at or cut apart as he sees fit. 

“I know,” Kendall says. His lips curl downwards, hiding a smirk, or embarrassment, or both. “I just, can we, um—y’know—do things like we used to?” 

Stewy raises his eyebrows sarcastically, but his interest is piqued. “Really, dude?

“Y’know, if you want to. I just, I just thought I would broach—”

“Uh-huh, this is broaching?”

“Yeah, I’m broaching, dude,” Kendall says with mock seriousness. “Unless, like, now that we’re business partners again, you want me to, uh, take this one up with Waystar HR.”

“You just fucked your dad and now you want to fuck me too?” Stewy tilts his head inquisitively to the side. “I see how it is. I just thought you’d be all fucked out. I’m surprised your dick even still works at this point if we’re being honest.”

There’s no bite to his words. If anything, it defuses the tension. Kendall laughs, then smiles a real smile, one Stewy rarely gets to see.

“You’re a dick,” Kendall says. “No, like, really. You’re a total fucking dick, dude.” 

“Funny, you’re the first person who’s ever told me that.” 

Kendall shakes his head, then tugs Stewy in line with his mouth. He kisses him again. Stewy kisses him back.

In other circumstances, it would be a relief to hear Kendall joking about something that was so close to destroying him only moments before. However, the precariousness of their position—with the bear hug, with Waystar, with Logan—overshadows that relief. It only makes Stewy more desperate to distract Kendall, maybe even distract himself.

“If anything, we, like, we, y’know, tag-teamed him or whatever,” Kendall says in between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses and trying to get rid of their clothes. He kicks off his shoes and they clatter onto the floor. “So, do you—is that—” 

“Do you have something?” Stewy asks before Kendall can finish his sentence.

“Yeah, um, in the bathroom. The, uh—the toiletries bag on the sink.”

Stewy gets off of Kendall and walks into the bathroom, leaving him on the couch with his pants around his knees. Stewy finds the toiletries bag, then a condom and a half-empty bottle of lube inside.

“How come your bathroom is nicer than mine?” Stewy asks, glancing around at the porcelain clawfoot tub and the polished fixtures. 

When he comes back out, Kendall is already on the bed, unbuttoning his dress shirt. The lights are off, a faint whitish glow pouring through the window from the path lights outside. Stewy lets them stay off, even as he passes the light switch on his way over to the bed. He sets down the condom and the bottle on the bedside table and then sits beside Kendall. The atmosphere is heavy again. Stewy feels like they must be on the precipice of something, either getting everything they ever wanted, or nothing at all.

“You okay?” Stewy asks. He replaces Kendall’s hands with his own, unbuttoning his shirt. 

Kendall looks at him. “Yeah.”

They silently undress each other. Stewy is comforted by the darkness, feeling less pressure to make this anything other than what it is. Kendall’s bare skin feels feverish but familiar underneath Stewy’s fingertips, the moles and freckles that dot his arms and abdomen a pathway to parts Stewy has memorized. Stewy settles on top of him, knees on either side of his hips. 

Kendall rolls a condom on while Stewy busies himself with the bottle of lube. He works his slicked fingers inside himself, focusing on the warmth of Kendall’s palm on his leg to distract from the slight discomfort. Kendall sits up, just enough to kiss him while he does it, and Stewy remembers a time when he would have sunk his teeth into Kendall’s lip for such a thing. Right now, however, he needs someone to treat Kendall gently.

“Okay?” Kendall asks, a bit impatiently, a hand coming to rest on the small of Stewy’s back.

Stewy nods. 

He feels less overwhelmed than he used to, staring down at Kendall and noting the anticipation in his eyes, the unearned trust, but he does feel something akin to it. A homecoming maybe, an ache in his chest. Kendall is a wound Stewy thinks closed up years ago, but then it festers again, an unignorable heat. He wonders why he believed it had healed at all.

Nostalgia. Everything between them is a product of nostalgia. Stewy should hate it. He should reject it. The way he picks apart companies until nothing remains, be it family-owned businesses or start-ups years in the making, nostalgia should be against his very nature, but Kendall is different. It has always been different with Kendall. 

Stewy keeps that in mind as he kisses him, then slowly sinks down onto him. Kendall lets out a moan into the crook of his neck. His eyes close, hands pressing into Stewy’s thighs for something to hold onto as Stewy begins to move his hips. Stewy is used to this feeling, of being tight and opened up, but usually not with Kendall, at least not recently. 

Rhomboid orgies and open-relationships are one thing, but with Kendall comes a lack of control, as well as the worry that something like this might matter, that it might mean something despite their denials. Stewy tries not to focus on it. Instead, he watches Kendall fall apart underneath him, which he does quickly and easily. He always has.

Stewy watches the rise and fall of his chest, the flexing of the tendons in his arms as they tighten. Kendall reaches for him, pulls him flush against his chest, then comes with an unceremonious groan against his shoulder. Stewy lets him ride it out, slowing his pace, then stops while Kendall collects himself. His breathing evens out, then Stewy feels Kendall nuzzle into his neck. He presses a kiss against his throat.

“Sorry,” Kendall mumbles.

Stewy pulls away, just enough space so he can look at him. He lightly rakes his fingers through Kendall’s sweat-dampened hair. “Don’t worry about it. Efficiency is a good quality to have as a CEO.” 

“Fuck off, Stew.”

Stewy laughs, but Kendall takes the opportunity to reach between them and wrap his hand around Stewy’s erection, partially soft from disuse. His arousal is an afterthought in his own mind until Kendall teases it out of him again. Stewy lets him, if not for his own selfish reasons then because Kendall seems determined to. Kendall kisses him again, then again. A hand presses firmly into Stewy’s back, drawing their bodies together.

Kendall traces his lips down Stewy’s throat and Stewy feels the heat lining his insides build and then plateau. He comes into Kendall’s fist, a bit anticlimactically, but this is Kendall: the best friend who used to get him off in club restrooms out of the goodness of his heart. Stewy barely even thinks about it, knowing he’s had worse sex with worse people in worse places.

He rolls over into the unoccupied space beside Kendall, only really feeling the loss of him once Kendall gets up to throw the condom in the wastebasket, then disappears into the bathroom.

Stewy listens to the tap run, the toilet flush, then Kendall comes back out. He hands a fluffy white towel to Stewy, which is embroidered with the initials S & T, then sits on the edge of the bed. He says nothing. Stewy can tell his silence is indicative of something. He wipes himself off, tosses the towel onto the floor, then props himself up against the headboard.

“Hey, man, we good?”

Kendall looks over at him, but his gaze is brief. “Uh, yeah. I just—I was thinking about things,” he says. He runs a hand over his face, sits forward with his elbows on his thighs. “Is this—is this going to go down like we hoped?”

Stewy shrugs, but he feels uncertainty begin to take hold of him again. “Logan’s going to put up a fight with both fists, you know that,” he says. “We knew that going in, but Kendall, man, everything’s gonna be fine.”

“I—I don’t know,” Kendall says and shakes his head. A recognizable agitation has returned to his voice and Stewy fears they have ended up right back where they started. “I mean, how can you say that? Just fucking say that like it’s not the stupidest fucking thing you could say?” 

Stewy sighs. “Look, Kendall, the world isn’t fucking ending, man. I’m here, you’re here. We’re still breathing.” He lightly shoves Kendall in the side with his foot. “See, look. You’re solid, aren’t you? Alive. That’s the bottom line, dude. Everything else is shit icing on a shit cake. We can deal with it.”

Kendall nods, but he looks less reassured than he does resigned. “I mean, I chose this. If everything goes to shit, that’s on me.”

“Hey, dude, don’t be a fucking martyr,” Stewy says. “I chose this too.” 

In truth, Stewy chose Kendall a long time ago. And if not for that initial choice, he might not keep choosing Kendall over and over again. Maybe it was fated to be a cyclical mistake, one he keeps making like clockwork, yet here they are three decades later. Somehow still friends, still fucking up and fucking each other and fucking each other over. Rinse and repeat.

Only, Waystar is now ripe for the picking. The takeover—a by-product of late-night ramblings, out of their minds on their drug of choice and ambition—is finally within reach. They were going to own it all, the whole fucking world, Logan Roy and his impenetrable legacy be damned. Kendall was going to reject those who had built him up and knocked him down, while Stewy promised to be there when it happened. It was wishful thinking back then, but Stewy thinks he might have finally fulfilled that promise, the first one he ever intended on keeping. 

Stewy watches as Kendall stands. He gathers his clothes off the floor, then pulls them on. He looks around for his watch. “What time is it?”

“I dunno.” Stewy scootches over to the other side of the bed to pick up the watch from the nightstand. 10:45 PM. He hands it to Kendall. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d join in on the festivities before I get formally disowned,” Kendall says as he clasps the watch onto his wrist. He smooths out the front of his dress shirt, which is in desperate need of ironing, but Stewy doubts anyone will notice. “Did you want to come?” 

Stewy scoffs. “What? Are you fucking crazy? And get my ass beat?”

Kendall cracks a smile at that. “Hey, I have my ass to worry about too. I watch your ass, you watch mine. Teamwork makes the dreamwork.”

In different circumstances, Stewy would wholeheartedly say yes, but the idea of facing not just Logan but the entirety of the Roys is too much for him right now. He has shared in Kendall’s guilt enough for a lifetime, let alone one night. 

“Nah, man.” Stewy shakes his head, but he returns Kendall’s smile. “But maybe later. I have some shit I gotta do.”

“Shit? What shit?” 

“I dunno. It’s like 6 PM EST. Fucking emails?” Stewy says. “Dude, I’m vital to this operation, I’ll have you fucking know.” 

Kendall turns out his palms in mock surrender as he walks towards the bedroom door. He chuckles. “Sure, uh, yeah, of course.”

“Uh-huh, okay, Ken. Fuck you.” 

“Fuck you too, bro."

Kendall jokingly flips him off on his way out. Stewy considers doing the same, but Kendall already has his back turned, heading towards the door. Stewy listens to the front door open and shut again and the room grows quiet. Stewy is surprised at how different it feels without Kendall filling up the empty spaces. He runs a hand over the sheets, then forces himself to stand.

In the bathroom, he cleans himself up, then re-dresses into his discarded clothes. As he picks up his crumpled suit jacket off the bedroom floor, the baggie of cocaine he was hiding from Kendall falls out of his pocket. It lands on the toe of his oxford. He picks it up. Out of habit, he flicks it with his finger to break up the powder inside, then tucks it back into his pocket, trying to resist the temptation. 

Putting his jacket back on, he stares at the bedroom door as it hangs ajar. He thinks about Kendall. Reluctantly, he decides to follow him. He almost always does. 

The saccharine melody of an 80s pop song is the first thing that greets Stewy as he walks into the reception hall. The room is bathed in shifting purples and blues and pinks. People move across the dance floor, mostly uncoordinated, patterning their own rhythms. It reminds Stewy of middle school dances, the gymnasium packed with sweaty pre-teens in stiffly pressed uniforms. And Kendall, a wallflower but desperately trying not to be. They were both helpless and unmedicated back then, back when cocaine was just something they knew from anti-drug ads or saw traces of on the bathroom vanity.

While everyone else seemed to grow out of their childhood predilections, Stewy grew around Kendall, like a tree through a chain-link fence.

Stewy lingers on the outskirts, feeling out of place. He takes a glass of champagne from a tray when a waiter passes by him. A different song comes on, another upbeat 80s hit, and more people move onto the dance floor. Stewy spots the first of the Roys on the other side of the hall: Roman sitting with Tabitha and taking obnoxious photos, Shiv twirling in her wedding dress, Tom dancing with another guest, a cousin or two, and then Kendall goofily shuffling around with Sophie and Iverson in the middle of the floor, Rava close by.

Stewy cracks a smile behind his champagne glass, trying to temper his guilt. Maybe tonight they can stomach what Kendall has done, at least for a dance, but once the bear hug goes through, that will change, leaving a stain on an otherwise unremarkable wedding.

_Oh, I wanna dance with somebody._

The music blasts from the DJ booth. Stewy can feel the beat of it reverberate in his chest.

 _I wanna feel the heat with somebody._

From across the room, Stewy accidentally meets Kendall’s eyes. His face is obscured by pink, but Stewy would recognize his barely-there smile even in the dark. Kendall stills as everyone else continues to move around him, then he jerks his head to the side, motioning for Stewy to join him.

 _Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody._

Stewy feels it again: an ache, a homecoming, a wound. The baggie of coke warms against his ribs. The music pulses in his wrists, not enough of a pull.

_With somebody who loves me._

Before Kendall can repeat the gesture, Stewy looks away. He downs the rest of his champagne, sets his glass on an unoccupied table, then finds his way out of the reception hall. He tucks a hand into his jacket pocket, presses an eager finger against the plastic, not bothering to look if Kendall is following him.

He knows.

**Author's Note:**

> This got out of hand. Like majorly. I hope you liked it! Lemme know what you think.


End file.
